


Beautiful Disasters

by justanothersong



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Background Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, Defenestration, F/M, First Dates, First Meetings, Fluff, Meet-Cute, Small Kitchen Fires, So much pizza, Various Bandaids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 13:16:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19906321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: It all happened so fast. One moment he was walking along, Sam at his side -- they’d been attending a small housewarming for Steve and Bucky and it had been raining for days, the sudden break in the weather made them walk back towards the Tower at a leisurely pace -- and the next a woman had fallen from the sky and landed squarely in his arms.





	Beautiful Disasters

What surprised Clint more than anything, apart from the initial shock, was that there wasn’t a scream. All you could manage was a startled yelp as the plastic sheeting split and you tumbled out backwards into the chill night air, eyes squeezed shut and mouth wide open in a silent shriek as you fell four stories towards the cracked New York pavement. Clint was never sure if he looked up at the right moment and reached for you, or if he had just been gesturing and it had _happened_.

It all happened so fast. One moment he was walking along, Sam at his side -- they’d been attending a small housewarming for Steve and Bucky and it had been raining for days, the sudden break in the weather made them walk back towards the Tower at a leisurely pace -- and the next a woman had fallen from the sky and landed squarely in his arms.

“Whoa, hey!” he called out.

You made a strangled whimpering noise when you realized you hadn’t hit the ground, your breathing rapid and your eyes wide and staring at the man who suddenly held you aloft.

“The window…!” you finally managed to gasp out, grasping his shoulders.

“Yeah?” Clint asked, nodding slowly.

“Fell… I fell…!” you gasped.

“Yeah, saw that,” Clint told you with a low laugh. “Glad I was here to catch you. Do you think you could stand?”

You tightened your grip on him. “The window!” you repeated, voice cracking into a half-sob.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Sam offered, having been surveying the whole scene from a ew feet away. “Looks like she’s in shock.”

You were actively crying by the time the ambulance arrived, still cradled in Clint’s arms. Only later would you realize how incredibly kind that was of him -- and how difficult it must have been for even a man of his strength to hold you like that for so long.

He and Sam left once they were assured that you were fine. You were resting on the gurney in the back of the ambulance, covered with a warm blanket and en route to the nearest hospital, when the realization hit you and you sat straight up.

“Holy shit!” you said to the bemused EMT at your side. “Was that an Avenger?!”

It was only when you reached the hospital that you realized no one from the party had come out to check on you; you wondered if they even noticed you were gone.

Six weeks later, you were pretty much over your high-flying (or falling adventure). There had been a great many apologies from your friends -- most of whom had been too drunk to realize you had fallen -- and an enormous gift basket from Beth, who had been the one just tipsy enough to gesticulate wildly as she spoke, accidentally giving you a powerful uppercut that had knocked you back three feet and right through the plastic sheeting that had covered the open window.

It was certainly the last time you’d ever go to an artist’s launch party being held in a mid-renovation townhouse that was being rehabbed into a new gallery. Why had that ever seemed like a good idea? Damn art directors and their ostentatious ideas.

A cold Thursday evening found you trudging home with the rest of the teeming masses on the subway; you were tired and irritated after having to stand your entire ride, and not paying as much attention to your surroundings as you should have been. You didn’t even see the ventilation grate as you stepped on it right as you left the train, only noticing when the spiked heel of your shoe became firmly stuck.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” you grumbled, struggling to free yourself as the rest of the commuters pushed and shoved their way past you. Of course, you had to be wearing the t-straps today; otherwise, you’d just have slipped out of the shoe and yanked it out by hand. Trying to lift out with your foot while getting pummeled by departing passengers was hardly working, but you had no other options.

Finally, once the train was gone, you had more space to really try to work it out. It took one hard yank and then, finally, you were free!

Unfortunately, the momentum sent you pinwheeling backwards… right to the edge of the platform, and directly in the path of an oncoming train.

You didn’t even have _time_ to scream; all you heard was the blaring of the train’s horn and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears and then…

“Jesus Christ!”

A strong hand grabbed you by the front of your blouse just as your feet left the platform and yanked you forward. You stumbled directly into a strong chest, attached to the same strong hand that had just plucked you out of harm’s way, and staring up into a pair of concerned green eyes.

“Did you… did you…” you sputtered.

Clint smiled. “Just save your life for the second time? Yeah, that was me,”

You realized suddenly that you were holding onto him so tightly, your knuckles had gone white, and reluctantly relinquished your grip.

“I just almost died,” you blurted, staring at him with wide eyes.

Clint frowned. “Yeah, about that…” he said. “You got some kinda _Final Destination_ thing going on here or what?”

You sighed and shook your head. “I’m a little accident-prone,” you admitted.

“A little?” Clint echoed, and you couldn’t help but pout.

“You have a Hello Kitty band-aid on your forehead,” you told him. “That looks to me like an unexpected injury. An accident, one might say.”

Clint threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, yeah, guilty,” he agreed, then leaned in close to your ear. “Between you and me, I think Natasha only buys these things just to fuck with me. Never seen her get so much as a papercut.”

You gave a startled laugh at his admission and he smiled, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling up just perfectly with the gesture. You hadn’t gone crazy over the city’s resident superheroes like so many of your friends had done (Beth even had a tattoo of Captain America’s shield on her lower back -- most patriotic tramp-stamp _ever_ ) but you could see how someone would get there. There was twinkle of laughter still in his eyes as he held out his hand.

“Clint,” he said, his large tattooed hand enveloping your own.

You smiled and offered your own name in return, adding, “I suppose it’s good we’re on a first name basis, what with the way you keep saving my life.”

“Y’know, that’s twice now,” Clint advised; he still hadn’t let go of your hand. “I think it’s about time you made it up to me.”

You arched an eyebrow. “And how would I do that?” you asked skeptically, sad but prepared to launch your knee into his groin if the situation called for it.

“Let me buy you dinner?” he offered and, you had to admit, it was pretty damn charming.

You laughed and then bit your lip. “Doesn’t sound very fair,” you told him. “How about I make you dinner instead?”

“What, the window girl?” Bucky asked, arching a quizzical eyebrow at Clint. He had paused with a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth, a little perturbed by Clint’s news.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed with a nod, taking a swig of his beer. He pulled a greasy slice from the pizza box on the counter and folded it in half, taking a large bite. “Haven’t been on a date in forever, figured it was time to jump back in the game,” he went on through a mouthful of dough and cheese.

“Yeah, but with a girl who falls out windows?” Bucky pressed.

“And swan dives in front of subway trains,” Steve added, sidling up to the table to drop a peck on Bucky’s cheek before grabbing a slice of pizza of his own.

Clint swallowed and shrugged. “Accidents,” he pointed out. He had stopped by Steve and Bucky’s place to drop a replacement Starkphone for Steve, who had accidentally crushed his recently in what he insisted was a normal day to day work incident but Clint suspected may have been the result of some sexy texting from Bucky. 

Clint liked spending time with Steve and Bucky. Their place wasn’t huge but it was comfortable… even homey. The two of them had gone into semi-retirement, working more behind the scenes than diving into battle, though they were always ready when needed. There was a slow, pleasant pace to their lives that made Clint feel relaxed and happy.

Better still, they didn’t seem to mind the company.

“D’ya think it’s a good idea for you to be makin’ time with a dame who’s that accident prone?” Bucky asked, chuckling, eyes on Clint’s band-aid.

Clint shrugged. “She’s cute,” he pointed out.

Steve grinned. “Stay away from the cute ones, Clint,” he warned. “They just get you into trouble.”

Bucky snorted. “Don’t I know it,” he agreed, nudging Steve as he spoke, and Clint gave an overly animated roll of his eyes.

 _Charming_. That’s the world he’d been searching for before. Steve and Bucky were charming. It wasn’t something he’d voice aloud -- just as he’d never say that it made him sort of jealous and wistful. He wanted that, the simplicity of it, the joy he saw in their eyes when their gazes met across the room, or across a pizza.

Clint had never been a big believer of fate or destiny, but having known Steve and Bucky, he might have been developing a slightly more open mind. It was difficult not to, not with two people in love, parted by war and death, only to find each other again, nearly a century later. That was the kind of story that romance readers swooned over; Clint tried to be a little more practical, but it still made him wonder.

Saving the same woman’s life twice? New York was a big city, and surely he could understand running into you again, but to find you so abruptly, and in such precarious situations? It was… intriguing. He owed it to himself to pursue it further.

You had decided very quickly that you were a complete idiot. You didn’t cook; you lived off prepackaged cold-pack salads, frozen meals, and take-out. The last time you had attempted to make anything more complicated than toast had been a disastrous Mother’s Day morning try for breakfast-in-bed when you were ten and it had ended with pancakes as hard and black as hockey pucks.

But you were nervous. It wasn’t because of who he was -- god knew the media treated Hawkeye and his superhero brethren like rock stars, but that had never been your thing. It was the fact that he has _saved your life_. Twice! Your own friends hadn’t even noticed you missing when you’d fallen out a damn window and Clint had stood there, holding you in his arms so that you would feel safe while you waited for an ambulance. He had reached out a hand and pulled you from certain death a second time when the rest of New York’s harried commuters simply pushed and shoved their way past you.

You just wanted to do something _special_.

The tilapia was supposed to be crisping but it seemed instead to be swimming in oil more than anything else. On top of that, the oil smelled… off. You weren’t even sure why you had olive oil in the cabinet at all -- you did NOT cook -- but it seemed to be a cheaper brand and you hadn’t thought to check if it were out of date or not, and the entire kitchen had taken on an oddly medicinal smell. And of course, the spinach you were wilting had somehow gone down from a pound to what looked to be a quarter cup in less than a minute.

All and all? It wasn’t going well.

You sighed in frustration and threw the dish towel you’d had slung over your shoulder onto the counter, turning to search the fridge in your apartment’s small galley kitchen for anything else you could cobble together into a passable meal. You eyeballed two apples and a handful of grapes, trying to decide if you could call it a minimalist fruit salad, when suddenly the strange smell of your off-brand olive oil was replaced by something a little smokier. You frowned and turned, freezing in place with eyes gone wide when you saw that your entire stovetop was now _on fire_.

The sudden screech of your smoke alarm brought you back to life and you screamed in a mixture of fear and frustration. You didn’t have a fire extinguisher; your mother had kept telling you that every kitchen needed one but _you. didn’t. COOK!_

“Oh god oh god oh god!” you chanted, panicking and fluttering about your kitchen in completely uselessness. You at least reached forward and switched off the stove burners, gasping at the heat. Not that it helped much -- the towel was burning and the entire pan of oil and tilapia was ablaze.

“Grease fire,” you said, shaking your head and glancing wildly around the kitchen as the smoke alarm continued to wail above you. “What do you do for a grease fire?!”

There was something you _should_ do, and something you _shouldn’t_ do, and you couldn’t remember anything but ‘stop, drop, and roll’, which you really hoped you wouldn’t need. 

The towel! Maybe you could douse the towel with water and use that to put out the fire? You reached for it and immediately let out a high pitched yelp, the heat from the burning end already far too much for you to put your hand anywhere near it. You had just grabbed a container of flour from the cabinet, hoping it would put out the flames, when Clint put a shoulder to your front door and ran into your kitchen.

In a matter of seconds, he had slapped the flour from your hands and grabbed a large can of salt from the cabinet, dumping it immediately over the fire. The flames lessened almost instantly and Clint retrieved a container of baking soda to finish the job while you pressed your back to the fridge and took a few deep breaths to try and calm yourself.

When the fire was out, Clint turned to you and nodded. “Never use flour on a grease fire,” he advised, speaking loudly over the blaring smoke alarm. “It’d just make it worse.” 

Glancing up at the ceiling, Clint winced. He grabbed a wooden spoon from a decorative holder on the countertop -- that, of course, you had never once used -- and reached up to use the blunt end to press the reset button on the smoke detector.

Clint grinned. “That’s better,” he declared.

You were standing there unsure of how to react, your brain working overtime to catalog everything that had happened in the past minute or two.

Fact: you had set your apartment on fire.

Fact: Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, aka one of Earth’s mightiest heroes, had busted in your apartment door and saved the day.

Fact: He had, presumably, saved your life. Again.

Fact: Dinner was completely ruined.

Fact: You hadn’t expected him for another twenty minutes or so, so while your hair and makeup were impeccable, you were still wearing a faded Nirvana t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts printed with bunnies and carrots in a repeating pattern, replete with a little puffy tail sewn onto the backside.

Because you were a human disaster and intensely overwrought over the happenings of the past half hour, you did the only thing that seemed reasonable to do at the time: burst into tears. You were trying to blubber out an apology when Clint took your hand and led you into your living room, settling the both of you on the couch. He put a warm hand on your shoulder, waiting for calmly for you to catch your breath and just get it out of your system.

Mortified when you were able to get your tears under control, you sniffled and looked at him with a mascara-streaked, woeful expression.

“I ruined the tilapia,” you finally said.

Clint smiled. “So… pizza?”

Within two hours time, you were sitting on a pile of couch cushions and blankets on your living room floor, a pizza shared between the two of you. You’d washed away the remnants of the makeup on your face and pulled your hair up into a ponytail; you didn’t see any point in looking half dolled-up when Clint had already seen you at your worst. He had smiled at you when you came out of the bathroom in a soft, tender sort of way that made your heart skip a beat or two. 

The living room pizza picnic had been his idea.

“Better keep you away from any sharp edges tonight,” Clint had said with a wink, spreading the afghan from the back of your couch onto the floor and pulling down pillows and cushions to make it even more plush. Clint had arrived in a leather jacket and boots; when you came out of the bathroom, he was down to his dusty red t-shirt, jeans, and mismatched socks. 

“Figured you wouldn’t mind if I got a little comfortable?” he half-asked, and you nodded.

“I have a bunny tail on my shorts,” you replied dryly. “You’re good.”

After another hour after that and you were wondering if what you had meant as a simple thank you dinner -- even if you had hoped for a little more -- had really progressed into a first date. It had been a long time since you’d actually sat down and talked with someone you were interested in. It was usually restaurant meals full of nerves of small talk or movies where you shared greasy popcorn but said very little beyond the occasional gasp or sad sigh brought on by whatever was happening on the big screen. 

This was different. You learned things about Clint Barton that you never knew; so much of who he really was had to be hidden away from the public, his personal history locked up and sealed so tight that only the snapshots that the Avengers chose to be meted out were really know. It seemed strange to meet him in person and find him freely offering up bits and pieces of his life story as you talked over pizza and a half-flat bottle of grape soda.

He talked about his family -- parents that he couldn’t remember well and an older brother lost to the winds; he talked about trying to track the brother down and realizing that he didn’t want to be found, and deciding to let him be. He had a new family now, the other members of his team that he would mention in passing by their given names, making you forget that they were supposed to be somehow _other_ , different than normal men and women, somehow greater, somehow more dangerous.

Scott, who was apparently the world’s biggest dork.

Tony, who pretends not to care but really stands as their patriarch, his home always having an open door to the whole team should they never need it.

Steve, a sneaky little shit that pulled pranks better than Clint himself, often going unidentified as the culprit.

Natasha, who Clint understood in a way most people couldn’t, who came off as cold and frightening to some but was really just wildly protective of all of them.

It occurred to you that he might be preparing you to meet them, the way he would casually draw all of their names into the conversation, even as he asked questions to learn more about you. Where you grew up, if you had any family, what you did for a living… all probing questions, asked in such a friendly, interested way that you hadn’t even realized you were spilling your guts until well after you had answered.

He made you laugh. You returned the favor. 

He tried to read your palm, insisting he had learned how in his youth with the circus, but then telling you that one line meant you would win a free ticket on a scratch-off game and another meant there was more pizza in your near future.

You felt completely comfortable and at ease when you leaned in to kiss him, noting the way he smiled against your lips when you did. Clint’s lips were warm and chapped, and you were certain the little divot on his upper lip was a healed scar from a split. His hand was rough and calloused when he reached to cup your cheek but it felt perfect against your skin, and when he nibbled your lower lip to beg entrance, you didn’t even hesitate to grant it.

Eventually you had to pull away. “I’d ask you to take me to bed,” you said honestly, “But we just ate a pizza and a half… I don’t think it’d be a great experience for either of us.”

Clint laughed and kissed you again, slow and sweet, before pulling back with a hum. “You’re probably right,” he agreed. “I had another half of a pizza for lunch as it is… I’m surprised I’m still standing.”

You snickered. “You’re not standing,” you reminded him, patting his thigh.

He snorted. “See what I mean?” he said. “But… doesn’t mean I can’t stick around. What d’ya say?”

Curling around Clint in your bed in the early hours of the morning, cuddled beneath the extra blankets from the living room floor, you were certain that tilapia had been the best choice.

Clint turned up at Bucky and Steve’s place around midday, wearing the same clothes as the day before with a black eye and a Kermit the Frog bandaid over the bridge of his nose. He was instantly greeted with a salacious grin from Bucky.

“Date went well?” he asked with a low chuckle.

Steve frowned, hands on his hips. “Clint, I’m not gonna pry, but you shouldn’t… when you help someone, you shouldn’t expect them to…”

“We had a pizza picnic after she set her kitchen on fire,” Clint explained as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Then we took a nap. Best first date I ever had.”

Steve arched an eyebrow. “And the bandaid…?” he asked as he followed Clint to the living room, the black eye such a regular sight on Clint that he didn’t even question it.

“Eh? Oh,” Clint said, plopping onto the cough and raising one hand to touch the bandaid, smiling a little even as he winced at the touch. “She had this little shelf thing hung up over the bed, damn thing just straight up fell on my face around four this morning.”

Bucky laughed, appearing in the living room with a mug of black coffee for Clint and an overly-sugared mug for Steve, who took it with a grateful smile and a gentle kiss in thanks. It had been jarring the first few times that Clint saw the two exchange such intimate signs of affection after they had hidden their relationship for so long, but it didn’t even make him blink anymore.

“She sounds about as much as a mess as you are,” Bucky offered.

Clint took a sip of his coffee and grinned. “I know,” he agreed. “I kinda love that about her.”

~*~

Six years later saw you sitting in a city park, surrounded by an assortment of harried parents annoyed nannies, watching as children ran wild on the playground. It was a sunny fall afternoon and the kids were out in force in the early afternoon; your own daughter had been a wild ball of energy after half-day kindergarten, and you had to get her outdoors to keep your apartment from being completely totaled.

A trio of nannies beside you were lamenting a recent break-up that one of them had experienced; apparently she had been willing to work at it, but her partner had just been.

“I mean who does that?” she asked, clearly more annoyed than hurt. “It’s a _process_. True love doesn’t just fall out of the sky!”

Her friends murmured in agreement and you couldn’t help the small smile that came to your face. Maybe that was true for some, but for others… well.

“Momma!” your daughter called suddenly, and your gaze snapped to where she stood at the foot of a stainless steel slide that led up to a large wooden platform and a bridge to some tubes and nets to crawl on. When she saw your gaze land upon her, she grinned and jumped up and down.

“Momma, watch me!” she called, her exuberance gaining the attention of the other adults seated on the benches around you. She turned and started to run up the slide, her yellow rubber boots with toes decorated to look like bumblebees squeaking on the steel. She only made it halfway before tumbled down backwards. There was a collective gasp as she landed in the wood chips at the foot of the slide with a pronounced “Oof!”.

They glanced to you, expecting her to cry and for you to run to her aid, but you knew your girl better than that. She stood up, geared herself up again, and ran right up the slide to the platform. She didn’t stop there, scrambling to stand atop the wooden rail, hooting and hollering her victory.

The other parents looked at you as you smiled, calling for her to _get down from there_ in cheerful, relaxed tone. She dutifully climbed down, standing atop the slide to five you a double thumbs-up, her grin wrinkling the Vampirina bandaid over the bridge of her nose.

You smiled at the questioning looks from the nannies and parents, and just shrugged. 

“She gets it from her father.”

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, don’t buy cheap olive oil. It won’t necessarily ignite; it’s just gross.


End file.
